La Belle et La Bete
by LadyLazarus9
Summary: Finally free from Milady's hold on his heart, Athos and the Musketeers begin investigating the death of an unlikely hero and the woman he mentions with his dying breath. A tavern owner and recluse, Marguerite tries to draw as little attention as possible, but the frequent attention from Musketeers makes it difficult. Mystery, romance, Athos/OC, Constagnan, Aramis/Queen Anne.
1. Bonne Chance

**This is a new story. It's set after episode 10, but before Aramis knows about Anne's ****pregnancy. Also, the cat comes from an April fools' post about the show casting a cat as the Comte de Rochefort. I liked the idea of Athos and a cat I had to put it in here. This chapter isn't very much, just setting the scene and introducing the OC. More to come. **

* * *

"The last time this happened," drawled Aramis, balancing the end of his pistol on his finger, "it went on for _days_."

D'Artagnan snorted, licked his thumb, and turned the page of his book. Porthos, reclined against the wall with his hat over his eyes, grumbled, "You go on for days."

Aramis wasn't about to finish there. "I mean, we're Musketeers. That means we should be out there somewhere, running head-long into danger, saving lives, winning favour—"

"Everything except peace and quiet," D'Artagnan added lightly.

The pistol tipped suddenly and fell, hitting Aramis' face as it went. "Ow. Come, D'Artagnan, it's been merely three months since you've become a Musketeer—getting tired already?"

Porthos grunted, "Of you?"

Aramis was the most easily effected by leisure—and poorly effected at that. If he had his way, they would all be working, traveling, fighting constantly; as it was, the occasional lull in action permeated their line of work, especially during times of peace. It was one of those times, though less than three days ago they had returned from a long and difficult journey from Calais after a meeting with the Duke of Buckingham. The King's life had not been at risk, but a royal person is a difficult traveling companion; the pace had been agonizingly slow.

Aramis brought his fists down on the table, their usual spot in the garrison yard, his eyes bright with irritation. "What's the matter with you two? I'm going to die of boredom, and here you are, sleeping and—what are you _doing_?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm reading, Aramis. Have you ever tried to?"

Aramis looked affronted. "Of course. Naturally. I just haven't got the time."

"No time, eh? Plenty of time wastin' away now, isn't there?" This came from under Porthos' hat.

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Aramis snapped. "Anyway, D'Artagnan, I didn't think it was a common accomplishment of men in Gascony to read. Learned farmer, were you?"

D'Artagnan didn't take the bait. "My father was. He taught me everything he could; we couldn't afford school."

"Fair enough, just didn't place you as the reading type."

D'Artagnan looked up. "Exactly what 'type' am I?" he said petulantly.

Aramis was saved from answering this question as Athos strode into the yard. "Athos! Please, save me from this boredom; I swear, I shall go mad from it."

Athos' face was customarily stoic. "You mean the boredom you were praying for a week ago? I don't when your moaning is worse, when we're in the thick of battle or during our time off." Athos bore slow days as he bore any difficult day—with few words and at least one glass of wine.

Aramis threw his hands up. "You're all of you useless. I'm going to go amuse myself, and no, you're not invited." He stood, collecting his hat and gloves and stomping in a surprisingly childlike manner.

"If you get drunk and try to swim to the bottom of the Seine again, I'm not pulling you out!" D'Artagnan called after him, turning another page.

"Have you seen the cat?" Athos said in his quiet voice.

D'Artagnan scoffed. "That bloody _cat_."

The cat was an interesting story. There was no shortage of homeless animals roaming the streets of Paris—and no shortage of carcasses, either—but a particularly persistent cat had begun to wait in the yard for scraps about a month ago, a scruffy bedraggled thing that look as if it had been drowned and resurrected. They fed the cat out of amusement mostly, though D'Artagnan had not been amused—he was not predisposed to cats, and found himself coming down with a cold whenever it was around for long. Most surprising was Athos' reaction to the creature; they had expected him to merely tolerate its presence, but instead they found the cat was drawn to him, and he to it. They seemed a good pair, both entirely independent and somehow lonely. It was customary for the cat to sleep curled up in Athos' quarters and frequently in his lap, though he'd not bothered to name it. It was an addition to their unlikely group none of them had anticipated.

"He's been gone all day," Athos said now.

"Maybe a dog chased him off," said Porthos. "He'll be back."

"Perhaps he is furnishing someone's dinner," muttered D'Artagnan darkly.

Athos paused, looking down at D'Artagnan. "Are you reading?" He sounded intrigued.

"Why do people keep asking that? Yes, I read. Is that such a surprise?" D'Artagnan snapped, shutting his ragged copy of Homer's tales. It was an heirloom of sorts; his father used to read it to him.

"Somewhat surprising, yes," Athos drawled, shrugging on his leather jerkin and fixing his Musketeer's shoulder guard in place. "Only because I would have thought you more likely to be swimming to the bottom of the Seine on a day off."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm glad you have such a high opinion of me. You're not going to look for that cat, are you? Good riddance, if you ask me."

"I didn't," said Athos, pulling his hat down on his brow. "Make sure Porthos doesn't get into trouble."

As if on cue, Porthos began to snore.

* * *

Looking for a cat in a city as large as Paris was no easy task; the streets were crowded and the city enormous. Athos wandered, unsure of where exactly to begin such a search. He passed under the bridge where two months ago he had said a final goodbye to the woman he had once loved. He wondered vaguely if her locket was still there, in the dirt. No doubt someone had found it and sold it. It was here, under the bridge, that he felt a familiar brush of tail against his leg. He looked down to see the cat, its dirty gray fur and quiet meow. He crouched down to pet its head, but with a purr it slipped away from him and trotted down the street. Athos had no choice but to follow.

It was an area of Paris he was somewhat familiar with; they were not yet far from the Musketeers' garrison, but Athos did not recognize any faces or names. The cat wove through feet and padded soundlessly into a tavern; the sign hanging outside read, "The Maiden's Heart." Inside, the tavern was occupied but not bustling. Dimly lit but fairly clean, the pub had a surprising lack of suspicious characters lurking in corners, merely men sitting for a drink, women gossiping, travelers eating dinner.

Having lost the cat in his new surroundings, Athos went to the bar. A young girl was there, cleaning glasses—she couldn't have been older than sixteen, possibly fifteen. Athos thought it unwise for a young girl to be alone in a place like this, as pleasant as it was. He knew better than most what drink could do to a person, especially a man.

He asked for wine and paid his coin, his eyes skimming under tables and in corners for the cat.

A woman entered from the kitchen door with a pan of milk. "Could you check on the meat pies, Elaine?" she said to the girl cleaning glasses, who disappeared into the kitchen. The woman set the pan on the edge of the bar, and behind her the cat leapt to it, its pink tongue lapping up the liquid. "There you are, my friend."

The woman set to finishing cleaning the glasses as the cat drank its milk. Athos downed the last of his wine and went to the cat, who looked up from its milk and padded over to him, leaning into his hand purring.

"Is he yours, Monsieur?" This came from the woman behind the bar.

"Yes," he said, "in a manner of speaking."

"He's been coming here the last few days," said the woman. "I wasn't sure if he was being fed, so I started giving him milk. I think I've prompted a habit."

Athos looked at her. Her words were friendly, but she did not smile—she didn't need to. Her eyes were pleasant enough, hooded and ponderous and hazel in her thin face. She was thin, as thin as many of the poor in Paris. Her clothing was plain and utilitarian. Her hair was the brown of autumn leaves and straight; she had it pulled back into a loose knot but a few strands fell into her eyes. She brushed them away.

"You have my thanks, Mademoiselle," said Athos. "His absence has caused some concern."

"I didn't know they kept cats at the musketeers' garrison," said the woman. Her voice was soft and quiet and somber, the kind that could easily disguise threats as well as furnish sincere compliments. He didn't answer, and she looked up. "I don't get many musketeers in here, but I recognize them when I do."

"It's a fine establishment," he said, trying to shake off the odd feeling her hazel eyes gave him.

"I keep it as clean as I can," she replied. She swatted gently at the cat with her towel. "Finish your milk, _mon petit_. I'm loath to waste it." To Athos' surprise, the cat complied, lapping again at the milk until it was gone. "Now go with your Musketeer," she said to it, and it returned to nudge Athos' arm. "Pleasure to have met you, Monsieur."

Athos seldom offered his name unless it was required, but he felt oddly compelled to now. "Athos of the King's Musketeers."

She nodded, her strangely indifferent face contradicting her expressive eyes. "Maggie! The pies are burning!" came a distressed cry from the kitchen. The woman spared him one look before calling, "Coming!" and leaving him alone.

The cat meowed as his elbow. Athos stood. "No more milk for you," he told it, and left the tavern.


	2. La Mort d'un Innocent

**Another chapter for you. More action in this one, setting up the plot conflict. Again, just to clarify, this is set after episode 10, minus the end scene where the Queen's pregnancy is revealed. Basically, no one knows about that yet. Also, pardon my Latin. I don't speak it and probably the translator I used doesn't either. :) **

* * *

The King of France and a penchant for drama. Not a week went by at the Louvre Palace without one of his sensational tantrums—though they were more dignified than that; his loud, somewhat high voice could be heard at nearly any point of the palace or the grounds, arguing with the Cardinal, making jest with his courtiers, or ranting about some current issue.

Following these escapades, the King often went hunting, a favorite pastime. He made it well known that he would rather stalk stag or set the hounds after a deer in Versailles, but most often he would content himself with shooting pheasant in the palace grounds.

It was one of those days, except instead of anger or frustration, the King seemed to be possessed by _happiness_. Porthos and Athos were on duty guarding the King, and when the King burst from his privy chamber bellowing for his rifle, Treville sent for Aramis and D'Artagnan and three other Musketeers, knowing the King would want his favorites guarding him.

"You'd think they would run out of pheasant," muttered D'Artagnan as they crossed the grounds, the blue of their cloaks stirring in the wind.

"Or at least tire of eating it," Aramis replied, straightening his hat.

Under a scarlet and crimson canopy, the King waited, talking animatedly to the Cardinal, whose expression was as difficult to read as always. Porthos and Athos stood to the side, surveying their surroundings stalwartly, though Porthos looked as though he was holding in a laugh.

"Gentlemen," Aramis greeted airily. "How fares our Majesty?"

"He shot two pigeons on the lawn already," Athos drawled, an unamused twist to his mouth.

"Couldn't wait for them to bring out pheasants for him," Porthos chuckled. "And those birds are trained to hold still 'til the end."

"Now, now," said D'Artagnan fairly. "He's the King. Your insults could be considered traitorous."

"Sometimes I feel this job is traitorous," Aramis muttered. "What did we do to become his favorites, anyway? Just our duty; he doesn't realize we'd be of more use out doing what we do best, not babysitting him."

"It doesn't matter where we are," said Athos solidly. "We protect the King."

"If only we could all be as perfect as you, Athos," Aramis sighed with mock regret.

Before Athos could reply with a jab—verbal or physical—the King yelled, "Come, the birds! Honestly, Cardinal, do you mean to keep me waiting? I have it in my head to break my record."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Richelieu replied, "I do not mean to trouble you with matters now. You deserve your leisure in such stressful times. After the Queen's abduction…"

Aramis stifled a scoff, but only just. "The man is a snake," he growled, and received several elbows to his ribs.

But the King seemed unaffected by the Cardinal's words. In fact, he seemed buoyed up by them, a small smile breaking onto his face.

"You are in a surprisingly good mood, Your Majesty," the Cardinal observed with only slight trepidation.

"Yes," said the King lightly. "Yes, I suppose I am. Don't bother asking why, you can't know just yet. The Queen's orders. Ah!"

A pheasant burst from the underbrush, no doubt spurred by a groom hiding behind a tree with a long stick. The bird fell to the ground and the King seemed very pleased with himself.

"He's not a bad shot," Porthos observed.

"True," D'Artagnan said. "But I'd be more impressed if the birds were more than forty yards away."

"Forty yards," Aramis scoffed. "I could shoot a man through the eye at that distance."

"Hurrah for you," said Athos unenthusiastically as another bird fell.

"The fact of the matter is," the King said to the Cardinal and Treville, looking breathless and happy, "I've come to realize that everything turns out right in the end. No matter what happens, it works out."

The Cardinal nodded obsequiously. "Your Majesty grows more wise every day."

The King turned and shot another pheasant out of the sky to applause. A groom moved to gather it, but the King was already striding toward it. "No, no, I've got it," he said, as Athos moved to follow the King and stopped.

The King was crouching to pick up the bird when the bracken beside him rustled. Athos saw it and shot out toward it, bellowing, with the others moving at his side, but they were nearly fifty yards from the King. The movement betrayed a man, masked with a dagger, lunging toward the exposed silk of the King's back.

"The King! _The King!_"

The King looked up, startled by the caterwaul, to see the legs of a man leaping over him; he heard a cry of pain, heard the blast of a shot fired from one of his Musketeers, and felt thunderous thuds on the earth next to him. He struggled to his feet and was surrounded by the musketeers and Treville.

"What on earth is going on?"

"Get the King inside!" Treville ordered. "You three, with me, now! Athos, the rest of you—make sure there are no others."

The King and the rest of the entourage scurried back to the palace, and the four remaining musketeers spread out to secure the area.

Athos was fuming, both from the attack and anger. He felt foolish—he had not been quick enough; none of them had been. If Aramis had not killed the man, the King would be dead by now. Instead, a groom, an innocent, had taken the blow for the King.

Athos looked down at the body below him, one of two. The groom who had saved the King's life was only a boy, but the knife in his chest showed that he had as much blood in him as any grown man. Athos saw the faint rise and fall of his chest and fell to his knees.

"He's breathing. Aramis!"

The others came to his side; D'Artagnan pulled out his flask and they raised the boy's head to pour some water into his bloody mouth. The boy gasped weakly.

"You've done well, boy," said Aramis softly, his hand cupping the boy's head. Athos met his friend's eye; with a fractional shake of Aramis' head, Athos knew the groom did not have long to live.

The boy jerked his head fractionally, his eyes wide. His hands were white and clenched fiercely; he held one shaking out to them. The edges of paper could be seen. He made as if to speak, and they moved closer to hear.

"Ma—mai…den's…hear—t…" he breathed with effort. "…Mag…gie—"

"Don't try to talk," said Athos in his low, gentle voice. "You've saved the King. You will be remembered for this service."

A moment later, the boy's rattling breath rushed out of him in a long gust and his eyes emptied. Athos had seen death countless times, but the hollowness of dead eyes always unnerved him. What gave eyes life? What left when someone died to make eyes so…lifeless?

"Brave boy," said Porthos. "Did more than we could."

"He had the heart of a musketeer," Aramis said, letting the boy's head rest against the earth gently.

Athos stood and moved to the body of the assassin. Aramis had managed to shoot him just in time, though not before the assassin had embedded his knife in the chest of the groom; Aramis had not intended to be so lethal, but the man died almost instantly, before any explanation could be offered. Athos bent to inspect the body; the man wore papal robes, black like the Cardinal's, but plain and roughly woven. Athos tugged at a chain around the man's neck, exposing a stark, severe cross with spiked ends.

"Jesuits," he said.

"At least we have something to tell the King," said Porthos. "We know why the Jesuits want to kill him."

"The Jesuits are after every monarch in Europe," Athos replied. "It's not good enough."

D'Artagnan moved to his side. "Porthos is right. The Jesuits have been trying to oust the King for years. This is enough evidence to explain the attack."

"And how do we explain it to the boy's family?" Athos said bitterly.

Aramis nodded. "We should contact his family. The King will want to give them some recompense."

"What about what he said before he died?" D'Artagnan said. "It seemed important to him."

"He said the name Maggie," Aramis mused. "And something about a heart…"

"He said 'Maiden's Heart,'" said Athos as though he had always known, but it had just connected in his head. The tavern woman who fed the cat, the one with the large sad eyes and the quiet voice, the kitchen girl calling out, _"Maggie!__"_

D'Artagnan frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It's a tavern in the city." Athos moved back to the boy's body. "Porthos, what did he have in his hand?"

Porthos held the scrap of parchment in his hands. "It doesn't make sense." He held it up to Athos.

The parchment was crumpled from the boy's death grip and the words smudged. The hand that had written them was careful and curled, the ink thin and red.

"It's in Latin," said Athos. The words were difficult to translate; it had been years since his lessons sitting beside his brother in the library at his estate. _Sono, O muse, of saevio of Achilles, filius of Peleus, ut addo innumerus ills super Achaeans…_ "It says…'Sing, muse, of—about Achilles, son of—Peleus—'"

"What does it mean?" said Porthos.

"I recognize it. It's from _The Iliad_ by Homer, the Greek poet," D'Artagnan said.

"Don't tell me you can read Latin, too," said Aramis, looking both annoyed and impressed.

"No, I can't," D'Artagnan replied icily. "Is that all there is, Athos?"

Athos nodded, his brow furrowed.

Porthos said, "Seems like a dead end."

"No," said Athos, folding the parchment. "It's a beginning."

"What do we do now?" D'Artagnan said.

Athos retrieved his hat, his frown cutting into his face. "We go to the Maiden's Heart," he said. He looked to the sky; it would rain before nightfall. "We find this Maggie."


	3. Le Cœur de la Femme

**A longer chapter! The plot thickens...somewhat. Thanks to all the new followers and favorites. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

It was late in the evening when the four musketeers entered the Maiden's Heart. The sky was bruised purple and gray, the air chill from rainclouds sweeping over the city. The cold seeped into Athos' bones, settling into his joints and sharpening his mind.

After calming a King distraught at an attempt on his life, Treville had sanctioned an inquiry into the mysterious note in the hands of the King's savior. Even Cardinal Richelieu seemed eager for the musketeers to find answers, though none of them trusted his appearance since they discovered he was behind Queen Anne's assassination attempt.

"Maybe he's sick of playing the fool for the King," Porthos muttered at one point. "Now he'd rather rule on his own. Without the King or an heir, the ruling of France would fall to the First Minister."

"Without the King, Richelieu's life is forfeit," Athos had replied. "It is his bond with Louis that ensures his power. If Louis died, the Cardinal would be ousted immediately."

"And I can't see the Cardinal plotting with Jesuits, either," Aramis had said.

D'Artagnan had frowned. "Do we know who the boy was?"

Porthos shook his head. "The master of servants said the boy used to be in the kitchens and worked his way up to groom. They never called him anything but 'boy' and he never made any friends."

"Perhaps this mysterious woman can identify him," Aramis said.

Now they entered the Maiden's Heart. Considerably more crowded than it had been when Athos had visited some weeks ago, the air inside was warm and smelled of ale. Looks were thrown at the four men as they entered, and small whispers made about the fleur-de-lis embossed on their shoulder guards. Musketeers never came to this tavern.

A serving girl brought them cups of wine. She was not the same girl Athos had seen cleaning glasses at the bar, but another around the same age.

"Pardon, Madamoiselle," said Aramis in his charming, kind way; they had discovered that he was the best when it came to questioning women—if they weren't impressed by his looks or his charm, they at least found him the least threatening. "Can you tell us who owns this establishment?"

"Monsieur Albert Rosier owns the premises, Monsieur," the girl answered.

"Ah, yes, Rosier," Aramis said, as if he knew the man. "Is he here?"

The girl looked quizzical. "No, Monsieur. He seldom visits, only to collect the rent and forty percent of the profits from Madamoiselle Defoe."

Aramis mimicked the girl's expression. "I am unacquainted with Madamoiselle—Defoe, was it?"

The girl nodded. "Marguerite Defoe. She runs the Maiden's Heart."

D'Artagnan said, "An unmarried woman running a business by herself? Not many owners would allow that."

The girl had fixed her face into an unreadable expression; she knew she was being questioned. "We are a _very _profitable establishment, Monsieur. Excuse me."

She left the bottle of wine at their table, and Porthos, who had already downed his cup, poured another.

"Anyone else get the feeling that something's off?" he said. "A pub run by a woman whose name is spoken by an unnamed groom before he dies of an assassination attempt on the king? Where exactly did this go wrong?"

A man entered the tavern, a black cape on his back and his hat still on his head. He walked directly to the bar and placed a sack of coins on the surface. The serving girl opened the purse and counted silently, then motioned the man to the stairs. He disappeared up them.

D'Artagnan turned to Athos. "You didn't tell us this place was a brothel, too."

That was because Athos had not known. It made more sense now, how an unmarried woman could run a tavern without interference. No doubt Monsieur Rosier got his money's worth from this place.

"Profitable establishment, indeed," muttered Porthos.

"Athos," said Aramis, looking pointedly over his friend's shoulder.

They turned. A woman stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the serving girl behind her. She was looking directly at the table occupied by the musketeers; her eyes were startlingly sharp and hooded. She was smallish and plainish, with hair an unremarkable brown color and gathered into a loose knot.

Aramis, a lover of beauty, thought she looked thin, too thin to be beautiful but not thin enough to be undesirable; he thought she was striking enough to make up for what she lacked in beauty.

Porthos thought that she was keen—the hooded glare of her eyes and the small twist of her mouth spoke of an intelligence not often thought of in women, and Porthos couldn't help but have a slight admiration.

D'Artagnan looked at her hands, which were long and slender and calloused; she was a hard worker, and she brushed her hands off on her skirt with little regard to fashion.

Athos saw what they could not; only someone like him, someone who knew a singularly destructive kind of betrayal, could recognize such a thing just by looking at a person. It was like identifying a planet rotating amongst the brightest of stars, pinpointing the horizon where the ocean and the sky meet in a fog, or distinguishing shadows in the dark of a new moon—it was there, glittering faintly around the deceptively common shape of her face, a tantalizing danger, one he had never been able to resist: this woman had secrets.

She was standing at their table, a pleasant arch to her lips. "Gentlemen," she said, her voice low and placid. "Harriette tells me you were asking about me. What an honor, to be graced by the presence of four musketeers."

It as at this point during most interrogations that Athos took charge, explaining their purpose and outlining their expectations without leaving room for variation, but this time he did not speak. The woman's eyes did not linger on him, but he knew—she recognized him.

Aramis took initiative, standing. "Madamoiselle," he said respectfully. "We are the King's musketeers and we come on his business. I am Aramis; these are my comrades: Porthos, Athos, and D'Artagnan."

She nodded to them, so far displaying more decorum than most tavern owners. "The King's business? How did the King's business lead you to my establishment?"

"Are you familiar with anyone who serves the King?" Aramis asked.

The woman's eyebrows rose. "Anyone who serves the King? You mean at the Louvre Palace? I can't say that I do, no."

"That's strange," said Porthos. "Because a young man mentioned your name today."

"My name?" said the woman.

D'Artagnan spoke up. "He asked for Maggie. He mentioned your tavern."

She nodded. "I'm called Maggie by some, yes. But if this person knew me, I did not know them. Why would he refer you to my pub?"

"It wasn't for your wine," said Aramis, "though it was quite excellent, Mademoiselle. No, I'm afraid it wasn't mentioned in any light circumstance."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

Athos stood, his voice quiet and vaguely sinister. "The boy was murdered. He said your name. He gave us this." He held out the scrap of parchment with the Latin words.

She took it from him; she was very good at giving nothing away. She didn't look at him overly long, and in the time that she did meet his eyes she offered no telling looks.

Her eyes flitted across the paper. "I can't read this," she said.

"But you can read?" D'Artagnan said. It was as uncommon for a lowborn woman, even one in business, to read as it as for a farmboy from Gascony.

She nodded. "Yes, I can. My mother taught me. But—this is gibberish." She handed the paper back to Athos. "I'm sorry, Monsieurs. I understand why you felt obliged to question me, but I don't know this person you speak of and I don't know why he wanted to deliver this to me."

Athos felt a small fire prompting him to push for more. "It is written in Latin. It translates to a passage from Homer's _Iliad_. Does that mean anything to you."

She looked at him, her hazel eyes connecting with his dark blue ones. "No," she said.

And there it was. The smallest lack of conviction, a seed of disinterest that only comes from an experienced liar.

"We don't know the identity of this boy. We would ask that you come see him, to be certain you've never met him," Athos said, in the way he had of asking while at the same time demanding.

"You want me to view a dead body?" she said with the appropriate amount of horror. Now that Athos had convinced himself of her lies, he could see—her melodrama was an apt mask.

"It would help us greatly, Mademoiselle."

"I cannot. I have a business to run. Besides, I told you—I don't know anyone who works at the palace. Now if you will excuse me," she said turning away, "I have other patrons.

Aramis moved to stop her. "Mademoiselle—"

"Woman!"

This was bellowed from across the room. The noise in the tavern had escalated so that no one but the woman and the musketeers took notice, but that might have been because of the large unpleasant man striding toward them.

The man passed by the musketeers without a glance. The woman was behind the bar now, cutting bread and cheese methodically as though she had not heard the man.

The man tossed a purse on the bar; it clinked with the sound of coins. "There," he said, or spat, "there's your damn gold. Fifty livre, so you can't turn me away this time. I want a girl, now."

Mademoiselle Defoe didn't even pause in her cutting. "I'm afraid we cannot accommodate you, Monsieur. Can I interest you in a drink and a meal instead?"

The man slammed a fist on the bar. Aramis' hand went to his sword's hilt instinctively, but Athos made a motion to stop.

"Four bloody times, you've said that," the man growled. "And how many men do you let in instead of me, eh? I've paid you the money, now—"

"I won't take your money, Monsieur," said the woman, sounding as though she had repeated this many times. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but this establishment caters only to certain gentlemen approved by Monsieur Rosier, the owner. I cannot allow you upstairs without his approval; if you have not secured that, your gold will not help you."

His meaty arm shot out, quick for a man of his size, and seized her wrist. The knife in her hand seemed pitifully small compared to the stature of her assailant.

"I don't give a damn about your owner or his rules—I want a whore for my gold now!"

Mademoiselle Defoe's voice was soft—it was not a plead, nor a threat. In fact, it sounded rather hollow. "You will maintain your distance, Monsieur." Color had evaporated from her face, but she did not show any outward signs of fear.

"Will I?" said the man.

Aramis and D'Artagnan were on their feet, and Porthos looked like a cat about to spring.

"So particular, bitch," the man growled, the hand around the woman's wrist growing redder in tandem with his large bearded face. "No whore, then. I'll have to settle for you."

His large, thick fingers brushed her neck, and what happened next was as sudden as a pheasant bursting from the underbrush—Marguerite's eyes flashed at the touch and she struck out, spasming. The clap of her hand connecting with his face rang across the pub. He surged with rage and hit her across the face—she went to the floor, her knife clattering into a corner, and Aramis drew his sword.

"Stop right there," Aramis ordered, the silver of his rapier blazing in the dim firelight. The man seemed more enraged by the confrontation.

"Out of my way, runt," he growled.

"Unless you want a bellyful of my steel, I suggest you leave," Aramis said menacingly, placing the sharp tip of his sword against the man's chest.

"You're drunk, Lombard," someone called. "You should leave!"

The man surveyed the situation—four musketeers eyeing him ominously and a silent crowd of onlookers not in his side. He sneered. "Fine." He reached to retrieve his purse, but Aramis' rapier slapped the back of his hand.

"As I recall, you handed this to the mademoiselle willingly," he said casually. "Must have been a gift."

"You little—" The man lunged to Aramis, and the other three musketeers moved in unison, drawing their swords smoothly.

"Trust me," Porthos said, "today is not the day to trifle with musketeers, especially not us."

Lombard looked venomous. "I'll get you for this," he spat.

"I doubt it," said Athos. "Be off."

He lumbered off, slamming the door behind him. Slowly, the noise returned to the tavern, though several eyes watched the musketeers.

Aramis sheathed his rapier and went to Marguerite, helping her to stand.

"Are you hurt, Mademoiselle?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "No, thank you, Monsieur." The side of her face that had been struck already looked slightly red, but her eyes were clear.

Athos wasted no time. "It seems you owe one of us," he said. "If not your life, then something near to it."

Marguerite Defoe regarded him. "Life is the only important thing. Everything else I can survive." She turned to the rest of them. "I will see the body. I do owe you something."

Athos put his had on his head. "We will collect you tomorrow."

"Mademoiselle," said Aramis with a courteous nod. D'Artagnan and Porthos followed him to the door, leaving Athos last. Before the door shut, Athos heard her voice, slightly casual and entirely mocking:

"My regards to your cat."


End file.
